cycle close up to the low wooden fence that divides the gridiron from
the grand stand and against which the players on the benches lean their
blanketed backs. From there he had an uninterrupted view. It was a
perfect afternoon. Overhead a few white clouds drifted lazily about
against a warm blue sky. The sun shone brightly and mocked at light
overcoats. But for all that there was an October sparkle in the air, and
once in a while a tiny breeze from the north came across the yellowing
field and whispered that winter was not far behind.

Sydney had a rug thrown over his lower limbs and wore a warm white
woolen sweater. There was quite a dash of color in his usually pale
cheeks, and his blue eyes flashed with interest as he watched the men at
practise. Near at hand a panting group of fellows were going through the
signals, the quarter crying his numbers with gasps for breath, then
passing the ball to half-or full-back and quickly throwing himself into
the interference. Sydney recognized him as Bailey, the varsity
substitute. Sydney knew almost all the players by sight now and the
names of many.

Near the east goal two lines of heaving, charging men were being coached
by Mills in breaking through. Stowell, the big, good-natured substitute
center, was bending over the ball. Sydney could hear Mills's
sharp voice:

"Now draw back, defense, and lunge into them! Get the start on them!"

Then the ball was snapped and the two ranks heaved and pitched a moment
before the offense broke through and scattered the turf with little
clumps of writhing players.

"That was good, Tucker, good!" cried Mills. "You did just as I told you.
Now give the ball to the other side. Weight forward, defense, every one
of you on his toes. _Browning, watch that ball!_ Now get into them,
every one! Block them!"

At the other end of the field six fellows were kicking goal and six
others, stretched upon the turf, were holding the balls for them. Devoe
was coaching. Sydney could see Neil, the farthest away of any, lifting
the leather toward the posts from a difficult angle on the twenty-yard
line. Even as he watched, the ball sailed away from Neil's toe and went
fair over the cross-bar, and Sydney silently applauded. He set himself
to recognizing the other kickers. There was Gale, the tall and rather
heavy fellow in the crimson sleeves; and Mason, equally tall but all
corners and angles; and Smith, and Gillam, and Foster. Devoe seemed to
be laying dow